


Careful Where You Tread

by BrokenHazelEyes



Series: OT4- Greg/Ed/Sam/Spike [32]
Category: Flashpoint
Genre: Dark, Drug cartels, Human Trafficking, Hurt Spike, Kidnapping, Other, References to Torture, Sike Whump, criminal activity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-16 12:15:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4624947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrokenHazelEyes/pseuds/BrokenHazelEyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike goes digging for sensitive information when and where he shouldn't, and ends up paying a heavy price for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know what I'm doing anymore. XD  
> Enjoy, I guess.
> 
> A/N: I do not own Flashpoint. I do not own the characters. Any OCs are original, and any cartels/criminal groups are original; any resemblance is accidental--information will not be correct, as I'm taking "creative liberties" with pretty much everything here. I don't make a profit from my writing, but it's still my writing so please don't repost anywhere. Thanks!

Friendliness was something Spike had grown up with, a bright sense of Italian heritage beating the morals of being polite into his youthful skin, and it was something he had always abided by. The brunette had a strong spine; unyielding as metal when needed, but also loosening and contorting when necessary. When to smile, when to put iron into his tone, when to hug, when to tense—it was all a part of Spike, it was all coded into his DNA. Except now; standing in the doorway to his apartment, hand still braced on the handle—he didn’t know how to act, what to say, what to _think_.

Staring at his childhood friend, Spike took in the overwhelming anxiety and distress turning the brown eyes nearly black. The man’s hands were shaking, clenching and unclenching, and nothing about him looked steady. The bomb tech felt like he was peering down the muzzle of a feral mutt—not locking gazes with someone he knew— ~~had known~~ —dearly.

“Richard?” The bomb tech asked, pushing the door open as far as he could and ushered the man in, “What’s wrong?”

“It’s—it’s Evan,” the dark haired man managed to get out, “He’s missing.”

“Oh God, Richie,” Spike whispered, “I’m so sorry. Do you have any idea what happened?”

“I think… I think he got caught up with the wrong people—online. There’s no way the police can track them, Spike,” His friend told him desperately, “They’ve got my son, what am I supposed to do? Sit in my house and wait until a—…a _body_ shows up?”

“I’m not sure what you think I can do, Richie,” the bomb tech sighed, “I—,”

“He… He was using this program on his computer before he went missing… Tor, or something. The police said they couldn’t trace what had gone on… what he’d been doing.”

“And you want me to look into it?”

“Please, Spike,” Richie begged, “It’s my _boy_. I can pay you—,”

“No, you won’t,” The brunette shook his head adamantly, “Just… here, give me the computer. I can’t promise anything…”

“I know,” His friend nodded, “Thank you, Spike.” Tears in his eyes, “ _Thank you_.”

Richard drew a sleek silver PC out of a black bag slung across his torso, and handed it over as Spike sunk down onto the couch and motioned for the man to follow.

The laptop before him was bruised; it was dented, a sliver of broken screen visible in the corner, and the number pad was tetchy. Still, Spike booted the system up and eyed the files as he drunk in whatever information he could find—usernames, passwords, URLs, horribly-coded messages and notes hidden away in sub-folders.

A quick glance at his friend made him sigh—the man was passed out, tears drying on his cheeks—and drape a blanket over Richard’s form. Then he turned back to the laptop.

Keystroke after keystroke brought him closer to the program everything hinted at—and Spike flicked through windows as he downloaded the necessary files and opened the Tor browser; the bomb tech played with the settings, wincing when he saw how little security his friend’s son had used.

“God, Richard, what did that kid get himself into?”

The Tor browser slowly loaded, and Spike pasted a URL into the prompted box as he rubbed a weary hand over his face—glad he wasn’t on call tomorrow, as exhaustion threatened to blur his vision. It had to be past midnight, now, and Spike felt like he hadn’t slept in days.

It took a few minutes, but the webpage stumbled to life—blank, save for a single box with two rectangles—and Spike swore, entering in the information he’d found earlier, the password and username accepted easily as the black page buffered and changed.

A drug site stared back at him through the screen, boasting ‘home delivery’ and ‘full security’ just under the list of products. A slew of South American countries were listed after a label of ‘pure products from…’.

“Richard?” Spike said softly, shaking his friend’s shoulder as the man woke with a start, “I think we need to call the police.”

 

* * *

 

That had been a week ago, and the investigation had ground to a halt—Spike had gotten the call just after he’d gotten off shift, Richard’s dead voice so broken that the man didn’t even need to finish the sentence. He’d waved off his teammate’s worried glances, leaning against his locker as he apologized for the man’s loss; Greg’s eyes became understanding, and Sam looked away. The shadows under Spike’s eyes now made sense to them; the lines of exhaustion creasing his brow seemed to fit as the bomb tech’s lovers remembered what the brunette had told them a couple days ago, when he’d cancelled their date— _“I’m really sorry, but I’m helping a friend out with something.”_

“Where’d they find him?” Spike asked, keeping his voice low, “Was it—?” _Did he suffer?_

“ _Columbia_.” The man spat out, then it broke back into sobs, “They _tortured_ him, Spike.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t find the information you needed,” The bomb tech sighed, shutting his locker, “Are you okay to be alone tonight?”

“Yeah,” Richard whispered, “Lydia’s coming over… we… we have to talk about funeral arrangements.”

It was the first time Spike had heard his friend say his ex-wife’s name without a twang of anger—now it was all just hurt.

“Call me if you need me, okay Richie?”

A response came over, mangled, and then the line cut off.

Sighing, Spike slung his bag over his shoulder and faced the crowd of eyes in the male locker room—too tired from both the shift and the devastating news.

“That was a friend of mine—his son went missing a couple weeks ago, and they just found his body today.”

There was a storm of apologies, of gentle squeezes of the arm, of sad eyes, and Spike thanked them all and promised to pass on their feelings. Then, the bomb tech made his way to his car and slung his bag into the passenger seat—solemnly driving to his apartment, resisting the urge to turn around and head to Greg, Sam or Ed’s house.

Something felt wrong, his body screamed, as he pulled into the parking lot and tried to ignore the odd car parked a few feet away down by the curb; a shiver went down his spine, and his stomach felt tight.

Staying in his car, Spike toyed with the idea of either calling one of his lovers or just going into his apartment—ignoring the cold feeling in his stomach, telling himself that any shift of the bedroom window’s curtain was just his imagination. He was just overreacting, right?

Peering at his apartment, and then at the car parked a little bit away, Spike put his car in reverse and backed out of the parking lot and hesitantly pressed the first number on his speed dial—already regretting not just brushing off his anxiety and ignoring the crawling sensation under his skin.

“Hey, Greg,” Spike tried to speak brightly, but it came out fake sounding.

“Is something wrong, Spike?” the negotiator asked, “You don’t sound okay.”

“I…” Spike didn’t know how to explain the situation, “I drove home to my apartment, but something didn’t feel right. I just… I’m sorry, this sounds so stupid…”

“No,” the sergeant said loudly and fixedly, “You have nothing to apologize for. Are you safe? Can you get over to my place?”

“Yeah, I think so. I didn’t go in; I thought I saw someone in the window. Are you sure it’s okay if I come over?” Spike swallowed the guilt that was lacing the words, keeping an eye out for the car that had been sitting just outside the parking lot—but he didn’t see it, didn’t see any tail he could have picked up.

“Michelangelo Scarlatti,” Greg barked, “You get over here, and you stay safe, okay?”

“Okay, boss,” Spike smiled, albeit weakly, “I’ll call you when—,”

“No, stay on the line.” The negotiator ordered, “Concentrate on driving but… just don’t hang up.”

“You going to trace my phone, boss?” The bomb tech laughed, then clicked the speaker button and placed the device next to him in the passenger’s seat.

“That’s _your_ job, buddy.”

“I have multiple jobs,” Spike joked, “bombs, technology—,”

“Right now,” Greg told him seriously, “your job is to get over here and to stay safe.”

The call lapsed into silence, Greg listening to the low rumble of Spike’s car and the aforementioned bomb technician watching the road with a tense gaze.

The road twisted and turned, leaving the inner city sky-rises and turning into more open areas. Traffic dissipated, the relief from their harsh taillights a welcome reprieve.

Pulling up to Greg’s home, and nearly turning red when he saw Ed and Sam’s cars parked haphazardly nearby, Spike found a parking spot and walked up the steps—trying to not look behind him and make sure no one had followed. The door swung open immediately, and Spike found himself ushered inside.


	2. Chapter 2

Bundled up, center of the mattress, Spike tried to not frown as he leaned back into Ed’s arms. Sam and Greg were getting dressed at the foot of bed—they’d just gotten back from the bomb tech’s apartment, having left said technician with Ed, and by the grim look on their faces it hadn’t been good.

“Was I right?” Spike finally asked, and Ed’s grip tightened when the younger sniper gave a weary nod. The bomb tech’s head dropped, an exhausted exhale blowing past his lips.

“Somebody picked the front door’s lock,” Greg told the two men sitting on the sheets, “The place was torn apart.”

“—but nothing was missing,” Sam added, “So I don’t think it was a robbery. The police are there now, checking it out.”

“Great,” Spike groaned, letting his head rest back on Ed’s shoulder as the bald man caught his other two lovers’ gazes. “This is just _great_.”

“Hey,” Ed shook him, and Greg gave the older sniper a look before crawling into the bed, “Nothing’s going to happen to you, okay?”

“It’s not me that I’m worried about,” The bomb tech confessed, eyes downcast, but looked back up sharply when Sam pretty much jumped into his lap and grabbed the brunette’s face in the palms of his hands.

“We’re all going to be fine,” the blonde smiled, ruffling Spike’s hair reassuringly, “Now, it’s time to go to bed. We’ve got work tomorrow.”

Ed groaned loud and dramatically, slumping back against the mattress and dragging the brown-eyed man with him. A small chortle escaped Spike, and the three men beamed as the laugh lines on their lover’s face crinkled up.

“You’re not going back to that apartment, by the way,” Greg mumbled into his pillow, watching with entertained smile as Ed clung to the brunette to the point of discomfort.

“I kind of guessed that,” Spike shrugged, “I mean, eventually I’m going to, of course—,”

“Spike.”

The bomb tech twisted his torso, catching a glimpse of Sam’s unamused face, but couldn’t go far with Ed’s iron grip.

“What, Sam?” He huffed, giving up on trying to maintain eye contact with his fair-haired lover—his ribs and spine refused to turn that much, and Ed wasn’t giving him any room to even _try_ to work with.

“You’re apartment got broken into, and by the looks of the place it wasn’t some random event. You’re not safe over there.” The younger sniper explained, “Not until we find out what happened.”

“What happens if that takes a while?” Spike asked, but his face was promptly shoved into Ed’s chest to shut him up. He tried to speak, but his words were just disjointed sounds and he could just about _hear_ his lovers rolling their eyes.

“Then you’re going to be stuck over here,” Greg explained, “ _for a while_. Now go to bed—Sam’s right, we have work tomorrow. Can’t have you falling asleep in the command truck, can I?”

The bomb tech turned his head to the side, just enough to breathe, and rested over the bald sniper’s heartbeat as Ed’s hand ran up and down his back under his shirt. The sergeant was resting on one side of the pair, and Sam was on the other side as they detangled the blankets from the foot of the bed and covered them all.

 

* * *

 

Spike closed his locker, straightening out his shirt from where it’d bunched up near his waist, and was about to slip his phone into the pocket of his jeans but the device rung suddenly. Richard’s ID showed up on the bright screen, and Spike’s eyebrows furrowed for a moment. He hadn’t spoken to Richard since he’d called about Evan’s body being found.

The bomb tech hadn’t been digging for information with the frenzy he had done before, but he had still been looking into it—cautiously decoding programs he’d found buried deep in Evan’s laptop. Spike had only done it at coffee shops and such, as none of his lovers would let him back in his apartment. And he wasn’t going to risk anything being traced back to Greg, Ed, or Sam.

“Hey, Richie,” Spike answered, voice cautious, “Are you okay?”

“Spike, do you remember when you told me to call you if I needed you—if I wasn’t okay to be alone?”

“Yeah, Richie, I do. I just got off of work; I’ll be there in a couple of minutes, okay?”

“Okay, Spike. And thank you.” Richard’s voice, heavy with despair, cut off before Spike could get another word in.

Not bothering to wait for his lovers—who were finishing up in the SRU showers—Spike raced out to his car and hurried to Richard’s house. The bomb tech had barely gotten to the third traffic light away from The Barn before his phone rang beside him, and Spike blindly groped for it as he kept his eyes on the street.

“Hello?”

“Where are you?” Sam asked, his tone tense and slightly confused, “Did you leave already?”

“I got a call from Richard,” the bomb tech explained, turning onto a residential street and trying to remember his friend’s address, “He asked me to come over to his house. The poor guy lost his kid, Sam, and if he needs me then I’m going to be there for him.”

“Okay… alright,” the blonde sighed, “Just keep your phone on and with you, and let us know when you’re heading home.”

“Got it,” Spike said, pulling into the driveway to his friend’s house and spotting the man’s car parked off to the side of the concrete path. “I’ve got to go, now, I’ll talk to you in a bit. Love you.”

“Love you too,” Sam exhaled, and Spike ended the call and slipped the phone into his pocket before hopping out of the car and bounding to the house’s front door.

“Richard?” He called, knocking on the door, but when no one answered Spike palmed under a fake rock and nabbed the key hidden underneath. The door unlocked and Spike walked into the house—closing the entrance behind him while continuing to call out his friend’s name with worry. “Richie, are you okay?”

Strolling into the kitchen, Spike balked and went to grab his phone—but glove-covered hands restrained him, keeping him from slipping in the splashes of blood covering the cheap tile.

Richard was strapped to a dining room chair, chest bare and face purpled with large bruises, with swatches of his pants torn open and wet-looking. A nail— _a fucking industrial nail_ —was hammered into the man’s sternum and the slivers of metal were stuck in several other places on Richard’s ruined body. His friend’s phone, bloody and broken-looking, was a few feet away from its owner and laying abandoned on the floor.

Spike went to yell, already thrashing and fighting, but a sharp blow to the head sent him headlong into darkness.


	3. Chapter 3

Waking up to sheer darkness was no comfort, but the feeling of flesh pressed up against his own was what set his pulse thumping faster than it had ever gone before. Chilled, musty air crusted the lining of the bomb tech’s lungs as Spike sucked in a breath—panicked, _terrified_. The brunette’s hands were tied behind his back, straining his shoulders, and his feet were bound—legs stretched out before him.

A gag in his mouth kept him from speaking, though the brunette gnawed at it and tried to get his jaw free, but a someone bumped up against his back—a hand clamping around his own. Shoulders pressed against his back, a form just a tad smaller than his own, and the person pried his fingers away so Spike’s hand was splayed open. A delicate finger traced something on the center of his palm, disjointed and messily scrawled, and it took a minute for Spike to realize that someone was _writing_ on his palm.

_R U O K_

The letters formed a sloppy sentence in his mind, and he grasped weakly until he was holding the other person’s hand and writing back.

_Y E S   R U_

The small fingertip scribbled across his flesh again, and somebody off to his left—the person pressed against his leg—shifted and groaned under his breath. The person to his back frantically wrote again, freeing Spike from his moment of distraction.

_Y E S   P L A N E   1 O T H E R_

Squeezing his eyes shut, even though they were already covered with some thick material, Spike wanted to swear—they could be going anywhere, could be thousands of miles away from Toronto by now.

_H O S T A G E_ The bomb tech asked, trying to listen for anything that would help—but all he heard was the low drone of white noise associated with passenger planes.

_Y E S_    The person behind him wrote back, but stopped immediately and Spike felt them let go of his hand as footsteps drew close.

There was no noise, other than the footsteps, until the bomb tech heard something rush through the air with a heavy thud—and the person at his back went limp against him, slumping down towards the rough floor. The other hostage, at his side, met the same fate with yet another slice of something through the air; it sounded like a baseball bat cracking against a ball. Against a _skull_.

Clenching his jaw and closing his eyes, Spike braced for the impact—and it bashed against his cranium _hard._

For the second time, Spike slipped into darkness without so much as a whimper—just familiar voices cooing in his ear:

_“…you stay safe, okay?”_

_“Nothing’s going to happen to you…”_

_“….love you too…”_

* * *

 

 

Blinking awake to _light_ was both a relief and a heart-stopping realization. There was no one pressed against his side, his back. There were no lightly-traced letters and numbers on his palm. There were, however, still bonds—shackles, heavy and crude—around his rubbed-raw wrists.

The floor below Spike was just damp concrete, and the room didn’t have any windows—the light was coming from a light strip over-head, dangling precariously on fraying cords. Illuminating with a bleached-white hue, it made the lake of dying-rose red blood glow in an almost _cartoonish_ fashion.

Scrambling back into the corner of the room, Spike’s hands slipped through the coagulating liquid as he desperately tried to get away from the image. A young woman was just inches away from where he’d been lying in the ground—the blood from her slit throat pouring out towards Spike; towards the _drain_ carved into the floor.

A nail was in stuck in the other hostage’s chest, just above the swell of her breasts.

_Richard, strapped to a dining room chair: chest bare, face purpled with large bruises, with swatches of his pants torn open and wet-looking. A nail—a fucking industrial nail—hammered into the man’s sternum, slivers of metal stuck in several other places._

Shaking his head clear, Spike breathed out a shaky exhale and rubbed his hands over his pants—trying to get rid of the blood, the _sensation_.

He could hear talking from outside, and it made his veins ice over like the various lakes of Canada in the harsh winters.

“…couldn’t…. ransom… too bad… —pretty.”

Lungs valiantly trying to bring in air to his overwhelmed systems, Spike tried to take in every detail he could—but his eyes snapped to the door when it was thrust open and two men walked in. Their faces weren’t covered, and the implication of that fact made the bomb tech’s heart drop into his stomach.

They knew he wouldn’t get out alive to I.D. them.

One man grabbed his ankles, keeping Spike from kicking out—though, the bomb tech still tried, grunting and cursing as he tumbled around on the floor—, and dragged him out of the corner. The other grabbed his shackles, the metal biting deeper into the brunette’s flesh, and tried to pull Spike to his feet. Not allowing it, Spike buckled his knees and turned himself into dead weight—still kicking, flailing.

The man who’d pulled him from the corner swore, getting a sharp kick to the wrist, and grabbed his ankles again. The two hauled Spike up, holding him by his ankles and arm restraints, and carried him from the room. The bomb tech was suspended between them, swinging in their grasps.

Arching up and thrashing, Spike still tried to break free—and he doubled his efforts when he saw a third man, coming out from the shadows of the hallway, pull a pistol from his waistband. And walked closer, scars across his face showing a life of crime and, more importantly, _survival_. And he walked even closer, gun held out before him.

With a sharp _CRACK_ , Spike went completely and wholly limp.


	4. Chapter 4

Sleep receded, again, and Spike’s back ached from the hard ground below him—another square, empty room made of bland concrete with dismal lighting and no windows. There was no blood on the floor, but his pants legs were still caked with the liquid from the other place. His shirt was missing, leaving his torso bare to the oppressive heat.

Throat dry, and lips cracking, the bomb tech tried blinking away the headache building in his head—his stomach was empty, gnawing, and his limbs felt heavy.

Time was missing in his mind, twisted around like double helixes missing segments, and Spike knew this wasn’t the first time he’d woken up—he had bruises on his arms and stomach that ranged from days old to hours, and shallow cuts across his jawline and cheeks; deeper lashes marred his shoulders.

Breathing hurt, and Spike slowly raised his hands up to his own throat and lightly pressed against the hand prints—where they’d squeezed the air from his throat, where they’d held him up and choked him while the bomb tech was only connected to the ground by his the tips of his toes.

Breathing hurt, and Spike traced his abused ribs with a shiver.

He didn’t remember any of this.

_—A red light focused on his red-streaked face. Spanish commands. English cries: his own voice, his lovers’, nameless victims led away. Empty needles on the ground. Drugs. Sobbing his lovers’ names. Fist against temple. Threats. Warnings. Bodies left to rot. Bodies taken away into the night. A voice, as a man threw him back into his cells, hissing in an odd accent “you shouldn’t have looked for us. You should have left it alone.”. No light, no light, what time was it? What day was it? What week was it? What month? What **year**?—_

He only remembered pain.

Sadly, fate seemed happy enough to indulge his forgetfulness and cast him back into the loop of what, Spike assumed, had been happening for days.

The door swung open and, within a few seconds, Spike was dragged down a hallway lined with doors—just like his, bulky and worn down by age and dirty with bodily fluids. The lights got brighter the further they went, going from fuzzy to neon; the structure imprisoning the bomb tech, however, only got grimier. Walls splattered in black, bleary handprints desperately holding onto the surfaces as they were dragged away—away from the tray of knives, away from the chair bolted into charred cement with threadbare leather straps, away from the bone saw sitting broken in the corner.

Away from the camera sitting on a cheap tripod, and back towards the dark cells full of nothingness and an obscurity that became their only company.

Legs kicked out from under him, Spike fell onto his knees with a hand fisted in his hair—rough Spanish in his ear, turning his face upward towards the camera filming them.

They were speaking, in even rougher English, about ransom money and warnings, but Spike only heard and _understood_ the sharp whistle of a steel pipe slamming into his shoulder—sending him crashing to the floor, pulled back upright by the clenched hand in his hair.

The bomb tech didn’t look at the camera, didn’t look at the men surrounding him; Spike looked past them, at the shimmering figures at the end of the hallway, calling to him like the desert delusions of water holes.

Three men, unlike the ones holding a knife to his half-collapsed throat, just standing silently in the heat—Spike felt sweat drip down onto his bloody lips, off his lashes, into his burning eyes as he swayed with a boot as it connected with his side, sending him to the ground again only to be kept there.

On his back, trying to turn his head to see his lovers shimmering in the high temperature, the boot forced his head back and the heavy tread bared down on his trachea—and Spike clawed at it, gasping brokenly and gurgling with the blood stuck in his mouth, but the pressure didn’t relent.

Black dots danced in his vision, creeping up like a veil being drawn over a corpse readying for burial, and _finally_ the brunette could breathe—shallowly, excruciatingly, desperately.

The bomb tech curled over onto his side, the blank spots in his memory slipping back into the missing puzzle places, with a trail of blood slipping free of his lips. A steel-toed shoe slammed into the fleshy-area beside his spine, and then again closer to his hip.

“One more day,” One of the captors barked at the camera, and the bomb tech felt bile trying to rise up his throat, “if we don’t receive the money, then you see him die.”

Another boot slammed down on Spike’s hand, and the brunette screamed as the bones splintered. As the heavy footwear pressed harder, crushing and pivoting around, Spike swallowed down his sob with an obstructed gasp and looked past the man screaming in his face. He just stared at his frozen lovers standing in the grim, grubby hallway with fuzzy vision. A small smile lifted the corners of his lips, and he only had eyes for his lovers—not for the men bashing his ribcage in, not for the men who’d held a branding-hot iron to his stomach. He mouthed something, whispering past his teeth, at their frames.

“..s-s…r..y.”

_I’m sorry. I love you. Please find me. Don’t leave me here—I don’t want to die here. Bring me home. I want to go home! It hurts, I don’t want to hurt anymore! Make it stop… please, please just make it stop. I can’t take it. I love you. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Please come get me. I just wanted to help him. I didn’t want this—I didn’t want this! I just want to go home, I don’t want to hurt anymore. Please safe me; I can’t take the pain. Make it stop! Make it stop! ~~Save me or kill me.~~_

Then Spike squeezed his eyes shut.

And they didn’t open back up.

 

* * *

 

Sam, Greg and Ed turned away from the screen, government workers already bustling around and trying to find a solution.

Their minds were still stuck on the smile and dead gaze Spike had as he slipped away.

Then the video cut off, before they could see if their lover was still breathing.


	5. Chapter 5

He was alive, Spike noted, and everything burned. Burned like healing wounds knitting themselves back together, not like fever. He didn’t feel like he was barely tethered on this side of life and death, dangling over the peak of expiry. Instead of angry red lines, there were swathes of mostly-clean bandages wrapped around his stomach, chest, arms, and legs. The bruises were angry looking, some darkening and others yellowing, across the entire expanse of his body.

Nothing except his hand, swaddled in bandages and a brace, seemed broken; Spike didn’t know if it was sheer luck, or something else… shock, maybe. Or something else.. If it was the madness he was afraid would overtake him; the near-constant isolation, the endless beatings, the howls of other captives echoing down the corridor… the wheels of a rickety cart, that they pushed bodies out on, squealing down the cold floor.

His partners had been haunting the dark corners of his room, whispering promises that Spike new weren’t true, the last day or two—but today they were gone; leaving him truly alone.

The door swung open again, and Spike didn’t fight— _couldn’t_ fight—as two men lugged him down the hallway by his arms. The bomb tech’s legs dragged along the ground, and Spike watched them emptily as he watched the door to his cell get smaller and smaller.

They said that today was his last day.

 

* * *

 

Greg covered his face with his hands, mouth frozen shut in horror, and Sam turned away as Ed sunk into the nearest chair—eyes wide, the bags under them more pronounced than ever.

_Spike was kneeling before the camera, hand twisted and half-gone to gangrene, with nothing but his tattered pants and a bag over his head—it was tight around the bomb tech’s throat, cutting off the man’s line of sight._

_He didn’t know what was coming._

_“You didn’t pay the ransom in time,” one of the men, off camera, said coldly; a masked man, dark brown eyes blank, walked behind the brunette and raised a pistol._

—Sam had screamed, begging when he knew that Spike would be long dead by now, and Ed had to be restrained when he’d tried to lash out against the screen. Greg had just stood there, unblinking, and hoped that his lover hadn’t suffered any more. He hoped that it had been quick.—

_The barrel pressed against the bomb tech’s skull, and the man seemed to realize what was going on. Spike sobbed, voice distorted, and his hands shook from where they were zip-tied before him. He didn’t beg, though, just shook and cried._

_The first bullet didn’t kill him, the gun now aimed at his back, but severed his spinal cord instead. Spike went limp, voice rising in pitch with the fear but with no agony—he couldn’t feel—against the quickly-bloodying floor._

—Greg broke free of his shocked haze, feeling the tears on his cheeks with a wince of confusion, and Sam turned away from the screen with a whisper of something the negotiator couldn’t make out. Ed fell back into his seat, curses and shouts falling from his mouth as freely as their shared lover’s screams.—

_The second bullet hit Spike’s head, ripping through the canvas bag covering his face and skull, and left with a small spray of blood and a quickly growing puddle._

_A third bullet hit Spike’s frozen ribcage, jolting the limp body, and then the video turned to black._

—“He’s gone,” Sam whispered, “he’s… he’s gone.”—

 

* * *

 

The Columbian man, standing on the dirt landing strip, watched the small private plane land gracefully and roll to a stop. It didn’t taxi off the path, it just stopped and after a few moments the door opened and the stairs fell into place.

The Middle Eastern man, eyes calculating, stepped out. His frame spoke of murder, of twisted lies and a deadly occupation. A _malevolent_ profession.

“You have the man?” He asked, accent thick, not bothering for pleasantries.

“Yes.” The Columbian responded, holding out a picture for the other man to see. A battered face looked back, and the Middle Easterner nodded.

“Is he still alive?”

“Yes. Mildly injured, but nothing he won’t recover from.”

“Good.”

 

* * *

 

Spike found himself in a new cell, for reasons he didn’t know of, but he sat in the corner the same way he’d done in the other room. Waiting for the hands to haul him away, take him to the chair and strap him down. Place the knife to his throat, slice it open, and then cart his body away through the doors at the end of the hallway on the rickety cart that haunted his gaze.

Today was his last day.

They’d said so.

So, if his _genius_ mind was correct, this was death row.

Then an explosion shook the compound, and Spike wondered if the killers had rigged the place to blow—were they taking out the rest of their victims with a single strike?

If so, then why was the bomb tech still alive?

Shouts didn’t echo through the hallway, but gunshots did—loud, sporadic, tightly placed. They came closer, doors being swung open with a screech of metal, and Spike pressed further against the corner as he watched his own room’s entrance with a weary look.

He, finally, heard a shout—“ _The terrorist is dead!”_ —after a spray of bullets as footsteps came closer to his door.

It swung open to military personal—DEA, and some other agency Spike didn’t recognize. One of them ran in, grabbing at him, and the bomb tech wondered how bad he looked—wrapped in bandages like some mummy, dirt smeared across his face, and what little clothes he still had in tatters. The solider held out a hand, and Spike slipped his own into the strong clasp.

For the first time, Spike was pulled from his room and went along thankfully.

 

* * *

 

Arriving on Canadian soil was a relief long overdue, especially since he’d been stuck in America for three days while they okay’d him for further travel. Mended his wounds, let him scrub the grim from his pores, and shoved him into a bed with a mouthful of medication

Spike grabbed onto the first lover he saw—Ed—and held on with a death grip as the other two fawned and pressed closer. They didn’t have any words, didn’t have any plan of what to do next, they just had ragged breathing and fingertips trailing over skin.

_You’re okay. You’re alive._ The twisting designs said, and Spike traced “I love you” over all their skins subconsciously. Too tired to speak, he continued on until his lovers realized what he was doing and pressed closer—sobbing their own endearments.

_We’ve got you. We’re never going to let you go again._ The twisting designs said, and the bomb tech clung onto the bald sniper even as he started to nod off—his fingers only tightened, even though Ed shushed him and told Spike that he wasn’t planning on letting go or putting him down.

_We’re going to keep you safe. You can sleep. We’ll protect you._ The twisting designs said, and Spike did just that.


End file.
